Getting In
by Scout Trout
Summary: Sidelined early on, a Resistance fighter finds a new reason to get back into the game. Chapter 9 - What tangled webs we weave? Sometimes it is the truth that is the spider web.
1. Chapter 1

The diner was specifically chosen because it was not one of those "see and be seen" places. It was not in a trendy part of town, the windows didn't glisten, and the décor didn't call out to passersby to come in and take refuge. The owners didn't care about befriending their patrons, nor did they seek out other business owners or local leaders to schmooze with (not that there were many in this neighborhood). Other than the few people who still lived in this section of town, the diner was largely ignored by most pedestrians. That is why Misha chose to come here daily. There was a time in her life where she would have looked over this place like everyone else. These days, she needed a place to be ignored.

Choosing to live under the radar meant not having much money for luxuries, so her favorite place in the diner was a counter spot closest to a TV that played the 24 hour cable news network. Today, like any other day, she was sipping coffee while watching the strange events of the world – strange, ever since the Visitors had come. Early on, Misha wondered if she was going crazy. _Aliens invading Earth?_ _I must be hallucinating...all the stress is finally catching up with me._ She finally resolved to live it out because, whether it was all fantasy of her mind or reality, this shit didn't seem to be going away. There were still mornings when Misha would wake up laughing, thinking all 'this' had been a horrible dream. Her mind could not fathom that her life had been reduced to such shambles. But her walls had started to crumble before the arrival of the Visitors.

The young waiter gestured with the coffee pot. Misha nodded and pushed her cup towards him. As he pulled the pot away, both of their heads snapped towards the TV. A Visitor's bulletin flashed upon the screen. Recognition flickered in Misha's eyes as she slid off the stool and leaned across the counter to get a better look. A gurgled, involuntary moan escaped from the back of her throat before she could stifle it. She did, in fact, recognize the young boy in the 'human' version of a visitor's uniform. Frozen in place even after the bulletin had ended, she didn't see the waiter's concerned look or sad shake of his head.

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Misha traveled down the sidewalk past the papered over shop windows and graffiti covered concrete walls. Although the broken bones had healed, she still walked with a slight limp. As she pushed through the door of the hole in the wall Indian restaurant, she scanned the tables. She continued back to the register, where the man behind the counter nodded politely.

"I need a rice pudding…to go, please," she said.

"Anything else, ma'am?"

"Um, a tea, too." She answered. Misha pushed a five dollar bill across the counter and was given five dollars back in increments of dollar bills and change. She turned her head and gazed at a painting over the register. "I need to see him," she said as quietly as possible.

"I will send word and contact you tomorrow," he answered busying himself filling a plastic bag with napkins and a spoon from behind the counter.

Misha smiled and thanked the man when he brought her order in styrofoam containers from the back.

When she returned to her apartment, she pulled the receipt from the bag. A handwritten '18-14' was circled at the bottom of the receipt. The number indicated a meeting place and time that she was to meet her cousin or, if things were too tight, another Resistance member who would convey messages for her. She would often show up to a meeting place only to be redirected.

Misha sighed, hoping this time she could convince him that, despite her healing wounds, she needed to be with the Resistance rather than on the sidelines. The latest underhanded, weakly camouflaged attempt to flush out Mike Donovan was too much for her to take sitting down. Misha knew that Mike's mother had to be involved – or at least know about the plan – since she was the official human spokesperson for the Visitors. How in the hell could she do this to Sean and Mike? Misha had always considered her aunt by marriage somewhat of an ice queen, but never had she expected Eleanor would stoop so low as to use Sean to catch Mike.

She stared out a dusty window at the street lamps that had begun to flicker in the fading light. She didn't foresee herself getting much sleep that night. She wished she had someone to talk to and somewhere to have a conversation where she didn't have to speak in code.

An hour later her phone rang. She lifted the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Hey. Marlo, from downstairs. I just wanted to let you know that your apartment will be fumigated tomorrow, so you may want to make plans to be gone. I thought you might want to take your valuables with you."

"Uh...yeah, sure Marlo. I'll, uh, go stay with my cousin." Misha answered.

The man chuckled. "Sounds like a good plan. See ya around."

Misha hung up the phone and smiled despite the distressing situation. She looked around, trying to figure out what she would leave behind and what she would need to take for her new place with the Resistance.


	2. Chapter 2

Misha drove her old jeep to the rendezvous spot indicated on her take out receipt. In the back, she had a few duffle bags, one oversized military back pack, and a few guitar cases. It wasn't much, but it was all she had.

She parked her jeep in the second level of the parking deck and waited. It wasn't long before a small white compact drove by and parked a few spaces above her. Brad McIntyre stepped out and scanned the area before turning his attention to her. She nodded once to acknowledge that she thought they were in the clear.

"How ya doin'?" he said, smiling as he reached past the window and squeezed her shoulder.

"All right, you?"

The smile faded a little. "Well, I'm OK, I guess," he answered. "We need to get a move on. Try to keep up with me, but if we get separated meet me at number 5."

"I'll keep up," she reassured him.

They drove at least an hour before Brad pulled over at an old gas station.

"Got enough gas to make it another 20 miles?" he called from his car.

"Yeah. This place is far out, huh?" Misha called back.

Brad only smiled and pulled out onto the two lane road. Misha dug out a cigarette from her canvas hand bag. They were only for dire situations, and the closer she got to the camp, the more dire her need. She was a bundle of nerves but for no good reason. She supposed it was a lot like going to a family reunion when you lived miles away from home. _God forbid I smoke in front of Mikey_… She smiled at the thought, regardless. Her cousin was so full of shit in every way, but (as much as she tried to hide it) she had worshiped the ground he walked on for as long as she could remember. She would, however, give up every bad habit she had rather than be subjected to just one of his lectures.

When they reached the hideout, Misha shook her head in bewilderment. She had been briefed on the Resistance's move when they were forced out of the tunnels, but only knew a vague description and directions to the abandoned movie set. She had no idea how Ham Tyler knew where it was or secured it for the growing group. She heard that he was sent to them from the World Liberation Front, so that meant he had connections. When she had heard his name, Misha had stop and do another 'reality check' (the term she used when she asked herself if she was crazy). She had heard of him; she knew of his run-ins with Mike back in the day. Small freaking world. _No, small fucked up world,_ she mused.

Misha parked and eased herself out the door and down to the ground. Several people began to file out of the rail cars and buildings that surrounded them. She was greeted with hugs, handshakes, light slaps to her back, and a few introductions. A familiar voice came from behind her.

"Well, you did find us, huh?"

Misha turned and went to Mike, hugging him tightly.

"What have you been up to, kiddo?" he asked, pulling back to look down at her.

"Where do I begin?" she answered. She thought about Sean, and wondered if Mike knew. She assumed it was the reason he let her come back, but she couldn't be sure.

"Well," he said, sensing her unease, "let's find you a place to put your stuff and we'll talk about it later."

* * *

><p>Misha breathed in, released her breath, and squeezed the trigger.<p>

*click*

"Damn it!" she yelled in frustration to no one but herself. She looked around to be sure no one else caught her outburst before she pulled the slide back to clear the jam. _Oh, well, enough practice for the day._ She had picked a time when she would have the make shift firing range to herself. She didn't like to practice around people she didn't know or those who didn't know what they were doing; she had seen too many close calls over the years. She packed up the practice weapons and headed back to the compound. She had just reached the top of the hill when she was met by a burly, shaggy bearded man in a fatigue jacket. Misha recognized him as one of the many people she saw in passing the night before.

"Was that you makin' all the racket?" he asked, grinning.

She turned pink, wondering if he meant the gunfire or the yelling.

"Yeah, the Hi-Point keeps jamming," she answered. "Got some tools?"

He snorted at her dumb question. "Hi-Point?"

"Took what was offered," she stated, and then shrugged.

"I haven't been here long enough to inspect all the firearms. Come on, we'll see if it is worth fixing." He gestured vaguely toward the rows of railcars to the west.

She nodded and started to follow him. "Oh, I'm Misha LaReaux." She offered her hand.

"Chris Farber, nice to meet you," he said taking her hand. "You don't eat with the others?"

"Oh, uh," she stalled, trying to think of a good answer, "I'm new here, too. I guess I haven't gotten into the routine yet. You?"

"Not much on routines myself," he answered casually. Misha couldn't help but to notice he had a southern accent, but it was different than hers. Tennessee, Texas, may be?

As we reached the compound, Chris pointed towards a railcar towards the end of the row. "We're down there."

As they climbed into the railcar, Chris paused at the door. "You met Ham yet?" he asked.

"No," Misha said as she entered the car, "we haven't met."

Ham Tyler was standing behind a short table with several guns and parts in front of him. Chris introduced the two of them, and they nodded acknowledgements. Donovan hadn't told Tyler much about his cousin other than she had been in the military, but had been injured and discharged. He got the feeling that Donovan was holding out information, but didn't pry…yet.

Chris dug out a small leather package out of an ammunitions box and set it on the table. "You got this?" he asked Misha over his shoulder.

"Let me dig out the firing pin and I'll let you know." she said pulling out a chair in front of Tyler. She wasn't thrilled about being under his scrutiny, but she hoped he'd just let her do her thing.

"How do you know it's the firing pin?" Tyler asked. Despite his voice being deep and rich, his tone could have frozen a lake of fire. Misha's hopes of being left alone were dashed.

"I don't. It may just need a good cleaning," Misha answered calmly.

"Let me look at that pin before you replace it. Parts don't grow on trees or come from Big Brother anymore," he said, testing the waters.

"Sure thing." she said, getting to work on the weapon. She started to wish she would have just left the damn thing at the range.

The firing pin looked worn, but not any real damage. "Here ya go," she said as she pushed the pin across the table side without commenting on the condition. He flicked an eyebrow towards it, but didn't bother to look it over.

From outside, they heard the hollow echo of footsteps on the stairs. The door crashed back and Mike came through, smiling. "There you are! I thought you had went AWOL on us, already," he said to Misha. "I see you've met Tyler," he continued, patting her on the shoulder. He gestured with his chin to Tyler before either of them could answer. "We need to talk."

Tyler gave him a cool look then nodded, his mouth flattening into a line. He rose to follow Mike out the door.

Misha turned to Tyler. "And the firing pin?"

"Won't shoot without it, hmm?" he answered giving her an amused look.

Misha flashed her best smile to hide her irritation. She reached over to where she had slid the part across the table. _What an ass. I'm going to have to do a better job at staying the hell away from him._


	3. Chapter 3

Late that evening, the Resistance leaders called a meeting. The members filed into a large room, pulling out chairs or propping up on make shift seats. Mike stood and addressed the group.

"You all know the Visitors have my son, and they have used him to find me. We've made contact with them, and agreed to an exchange. Day after tomorrow, I will turn myself in on the condition the Visitors release Sean."

A buzz of hushed voices filled the room. Misha felt the blood leave her face and her stomach knot. For Mike's sake, she tried to keep her poker face. In the back of her mind, she knew it would come to this. She had hoped that there was some magic plan, but she knew Mike wouldn't risk Sean's life.

After the meeting, Mike avoided eye contact with Misha, who took the opportunity to slip out and find a hiding spot. She found a small path that led up a hill to an overlook. Sitting on a large rock, she put her face in her hands. Tears popped from her eyes and fell down her cheeks. During her time in the military, she had become so good at not crying. Pushing her emotions back and 'sucking it up' became second nature and something she didn't have to worry about. That all changed within the past year, but she still couldn't stand the thoughts of anyone witnessing her breakdown. She understood Mike's situation, and couldn't disagree with his decision. Still, she was terrified. There was a good likelihood that the Visitors would torture and kill him.

Shaking, she took out a cigarette and lit it. She had no sooner blown out the match than she heard something behind her. She bolted from the rock and spun towards the sound.

"Don't worry, I'm not a bear." Ham Tyler smirked.

Misha felt her face flush violently. She choked back expletives and plopped back down.

"You looked a little sick when you left, so I thought I'd check on you," he explained.

_Bullshit_, she thought, but didn't turn around.

Ham came around to face her. "Bad habit, huh?" he asked pointing towards the lit cigarette.

"Yeah, it started as a stupid college thing. Picked it back up after…the lizards showed up." It wasn't a total lie.

"Hmm. And you had to come up here to hide it from Gooder," he stated looking out over the hills.

"Guess you could say that. Look, I'll be all right, really. I just don't want to know what they are going to do to him." Misha snapped irritably.

"I can't promise you anything, Misha. But, as much as hate to admit it, he can take care of himself. We'll come up with something," Ham said quietly.

Misha sighed. "You're not going to tell him I was smoking…or crying…" It was more a statement rather than a request.

"Depends on how well you pay," he said without smiling.

She groaned ruefully and dropped her head back to her hands. Ham walked by her, and patted her on the back. When she lifted her head, he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Misha sat in the hall outside a closed door. The team knew, even before they handed Mike Donovan over to the Visitors, they would have to relocate due to the threat of him being forced into disclosing their location. They were now at a compound of several one level buildings that circled a lighthouse. The beauty of the place gave a deeper sense of irony to the hellish circumstances the Resistance faced.

Behind the door, Julie was examining Sean. Misha's knees twitched as she squirmed on the bench. She had put off letting Julie do a follow up exam, but she had run out of excuses. Julie backed her into a corner by telling Sean that she would take a look at the two of them. Realizing Julie was trying to take the edge off for Sean's sake, Misha didn't argue.

The door swung open and Julie popped her head out. She smiled at Misha and announced, "Next victim, please."

Sean was off the exam table, concentrating on the top two buttons of his shirt. Misha pulled him to her and kissed the top of his head. Sean pulled away without returning affection.

"Ah, you are getting too grown up for me, huh?" she said, swatting him playfully.

"Can I go now?" he asked Julie.

"Sure, go ahead," she answered, shooting Misha a sideways glance.

Misha shrugged and heaved herself onto the table. "How is he?" she asked when Sean was out of earshot.

Julie sighed. "Physically, he's fine. He's been through so much. He needs someone like you who understands."

"Well, I don't understand what _he_ went through," Misha snipped, "No one really could."

Julie nodded and raised her hands. "Let's take a look at you," she said to change the subject.

Misha leaned back on the exam table and let Julie lift her left leg, stretching it out and then pushing her knee to her chest. Misha winced when Julie pushed the right leg up.

"Still sore, huh?" Julie asked.

"Yeah, pretty bad." Misha answered, blowing out a breath that she had held in anticipation of pain.

Julie pushed and prodded around on Misha's legs, hips, and lower back. Then she extended her hand to help Misha sit up.

"So," Julie began, "what about your anxiety? Have you been sleeping? Any unsettling thoughts?"

"Still not great. I'm sleeping better – well, I was sleeping better…" Misha answered, and then laughed without humor. "Isn't everyone a little paranoid right now?" she asked, confronting Julie's euphemism.

"Yes, and that's understandable. But I want you to promise me that you'll come to me if it starts to get out of hand. Will you?" Julie leaned close to look up into Misha's eyes.

"Yes."

"Ok. You can work, but no heavy lifting or standing in one place for long periods of time." Julie said as she helped Misha down from the table.

Misha stopped and looked down at Julie. "Hey, I'm sorry I snapped at you. I appreciate you letting me come back."

Julie, several inches shorter than Misha, threw her arms around Misha's waist. "Oh, now… You know you've always been welcome with us. You just needed a break. You had to have a break."

Misha pulled away. Feelings of guilt crept up from the back of her mind. "Yeah, I know. But thank you." She looked out the window. "I'm supposed to help in the kitchen, so I better go. I know – no lifting, no standing," Misha said, heading off any protests.

* * *

><p>After nightfall, Misha sat cross-legged in the floor facing her narrow bed. She didn't have a roommate – yet. Making friends always came easy for her, but since being back she hadn't been enthused about connecting to anyone.<p>

She lifted the covers that hung below the bed rail and pulled the handle of a guitar case towards her. She pushed the case to the top of the bed, but stopped short before pulling the blanket back into place. She spotted a large, worn cardboard box. She slid the box from under the bed and flipped off the top. Several loose photos and albums, cards in torn open envelopes, folded letters, scribbled notes and drawings on small pieces of paper, ticket stubs, and other small trinkets filled the box. She carefully lifted several small items out and examined them. Notes from her friends…cards from her family…a rally button from college…badges from her uniforms…she let her mind skim over each memory as she laid the items in her lap. She lifted a large photo album out and leafed through the pages. Most photos were from her youth; only a few of the pictures were from her adult years. She laughed when she came across one of her standing on a rock, her arm around Mike's shoulders, both of them smiling broadly. She wondered how happy they really were back then. Misha thought of all the things in their former lives that so easily robbed them of joy. It all seemed like nothing compared to the current circumstances. Although she had only been able to see Mike a handful of times after high school, he was one of the only extended family members she had kept in touch with during college and her military service. Misha closed the album and looked down to the bottom of the box. There, double wrapped in plastic bags, was a smaller box with pictures and letters from a past relationship. She felt her stomach knot. If it weren't for the fear of regret, the box would have been disposed of. She knew she should have let someone close to her get rid of it without telling her the means of destruction. She had considered sending the photos of him back to his family, but knew it would stir up flames of wrath that had – at least that she was aware of – subsided. She didn't dare pull out the box; she knew what was in there, and the memories burned enough without looking at the contents. She placed the loose contents back into the box, replaced the lid, and slid it back under the bed. Misha reached for her guitar, one of the only remaining comforts in her new life.


	5. Chapter 5

Misha's bedside lamp clicked on.

"Whaa?" she mumbled in a fog of sleep.

"I need your help. Get dressed and meet me in front of the barracks."

Misha recognized, but was surprised by, Ham Tyler's distinct voice.

"Huh? What do you need? Where's…" she stopped.

"Go on, get dressed. Something warm, it's cold outside," he said. He backed out of her room, shutting the door behind him.

She dressed, and then made her way down the hall, trying not to wake anyone. Parked on the drive out front, a brown Bronco was ideling. The passenger's side window slid down, revealing Chris Farber. He motioned her to the back.

She tossed her small backpack (she never went without it) in and climbed up behind it. She looked at Ham, who was driving, but decided to wait and see if he offered an explanation. They were a mile down the road before any of them spoke.

"So, you were in…the Army, right?" Although he didn't turn, Misha knew Ham was addressing her.

"Yeah," she replied. _You wanna know more? Figure it out for yourself, Mr. CIA_."What the hell is going on?" she wanted to know.

Ham and Chris looked at each. "It's a surprise." Ham said, and looked at Misha in the rearview.

Misha didn't make eye contact. "I don't like surprises, so just tell me where we're going and what we're doing."

Ham shook his head. "You'll see."

Irritated, Misha didn't ask any more questions; she wasn't going to beg.

Further down the road, however, her irritation changed to alarm when she recognized the small half paved – half gravel road they turned down.

During her teens, Misha had come to California to visit Mike. Knowing of her fascination with 'urban exploration', Mike took her to an abandoned WWII bunker. Then, when Mike and Misha began to doubt the Visitor's intentions, they came back to the bunker to store their personal belongings. They stored their most valued items (although, Misha noted at the time, her items didn't carry much monetary value), as well as books, clothes, and some food and water. They had also hid a small cache of weapons, mostly handguns and ammo. Although the stash itself was of no real value, they had sworn each other to secrecy about the location and its contents in case one or both of them ever needed to run somewhere and hide out.

The road Ham turned down led to the bunker.

Chris asked Ham a question. Misha heard the voices but didn't register what was being said because of the ringing in her ears. Her heartbeat continued to quicken and tiny beads of sweat popped out on her forehead. _Why didn't they tell me where we're going? Why did I go with them in the middle of the night? I should have known better. Stupid! You don't let someone talk you out of your bed in the middle of the night. You're sleepy, you're vulnerable. What is wrong with me? This is bad. Why are we going to the bunker? How did they know about it? _

_I've been set up._

She was thankful for the dark. She tried to breathe but it was like needles stabbing her on every inhale. She looked over to the backpack on the seat beside her. She slid her hand closer to the bag, and pulled it against her leg. She thought about jumping, but was afraid of breaking her still fragile leg. _It's not far now. He'll have to park. I can't run fast, but maybe I'll catch them by surprise and get some distance between us. _She tried in vain to keep her hands from shaking. She knew it couldn't be but another mile…half mile…quarter mile…

Somewhat short of where she had expected, Ham braked and pulled to the side of the road. Misha didn't give pause; she snatched her bag, slung the door open, and jumped, landing painfully on the gravel.

"What the hell are you doing?" she heard Ham yell. She kept running.

"Get back here! MISHA!"

She ran as fast as she could, which wasn't fast at all. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she realized she didn't hear footsteps behind her. She expected to feel a hand grab her jacket or a body to tackle her at any minute. Despite her efforts, she slowed some. She knew she had to make a break for the woods. She bounded through the underbrush and pushed through the leaves and limbs. She knew she didn't want to go too far into the woods; she needed to get back to the road eventually. Eventually stopping to listen, she held her breath as long as she could to hear. She tried to control her breathing. Ahead of her was a patch of thick undergrowth, a perfect hiding spot. She crawled in on her hands and knees and pulled the branches around her. Tears flowed from her eyes and her nose dripped, so she wiped them with her sleeve and tried to soothe herself. _OK. Lost them. Just have to hide out now. It couldn't be long to daylight. Cold, but not freezing. I'm going to be all right. I'm going to be all right. I can do this._

Misha decided that it was safe enough to settle in on her behind. She hugged her knees to her chest, but knew she would have to stretch her legs eventually. She tried not to think of Tyler's motives, but rather focus on getting out.

From the direction of the road she heard voices. She stopped her breath and listened. She heard her name being called, but couldn't make out what was said after it. Then she heard them closer, more clearly. Her heart jumped when she realized that the voices didn't sound like Tyler's or Farber's. She strained to hear. _No, definitely not their voices_. As slow as she could, she eased herself into a crouch, and then stood. She saw lights cut across the woods, and she ducked to hide the top of her head under the brush.

"Come out, Misha! It's Mike! Misha!"

Stunned, she couldn't move. The call came again, and she recognized the voice.

She slowly pushed back through the brambles out into the clearing where she heard the call again. _Oh, God, Oh, God…._ Cautiously, she walked back towards the road and the voices. _Oh, God…_ Close to the line where the gravel met the soft pine straw, she hid behind the largest tree she could find. She saw the Bronco with the lights on and heard his voice through the night. She stepped out onto the road and into the gleam of the headlights.

"Mike?"

"Misha! Are you all right?" Mike Donovan jogged toward her. "It's OK, they didn't mean to scare you. They shouldn't have surprised you. They didn't know. I told them to tell you." Mike's words tumbled over one another. Misha didn't speak; her arms were stiff by her sides, her backpack hanging from one hand.

"Hey," he continued in a low voice, "I thought I'd check on my stuff – our stuff, I mean. I didn't tell them about the bunker; I just told them to meet me at the road. I figured you'd catch on… I'm sorry, Mimi." He hoped the nickname would make her smile. Her eyes were glassy, her stare expressionless. "Come on, let's sit down." Mike led her to the truck and helped her up on the tailgate.

"She OK?" Chris asked Mike, coming up from behind.

Mike looked to Misha for a response, but she was still unable to answer. She tried to make sense of what was happening, but her mind buzzed like a malfunctioning speaker. It was two hours before the buzz subsided, and her hands stopped trembling.

* * *

><p>After lunch the next day, Julie, Mike, and Ham were behind closed doors in a small room used for planning. Maps and notes were held to the walls with tacks and tape, and the round folding table in the middle of the room was littered with papers and folders. Julie sat in a metal chair, staring at her cup of coffee that had been cold for nearly half an hour now. Mike stood with one shoulder against the wall, scowling, and his hands on his hips.<p>

"You two don't get what I'm saying," insisted Ham.

"For Christ sake, Tyler," Mike argued, "you drug her out in the middle of the night and you wouldn't tell you where you were taking her. Hell, you would have scared the shit out of _me_! I specifically sent a message for her – for a reason - but you didn't deliver it."

"Doesn't matter…" Ham tried to butt in.

"She barely knows you, and what she does know of you is what she read in the papers." Mike said.

"What _you _wrote in the papers," Ham added.

"That's not the point," Julie interjected, not wanting to start that old argument again.

"You're right," Ham said, cutting her off. "The point is this: She is emotionally unstable and shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have let her come back."

"Last night was not her fault. She has every right to be here. She may not be up for missions, but she can at least stay close and help where she can," Mike said.

"And what if we were to be invaded here, Gooder? You saw her last night, she went bat shit crazy."

"That's enough!" Julie shouted when Mike bolted from the wall. She continued in a calmer voice: "We will keep an eye on her, but Misha is not going anywhere. That's final."

Outside the cracked door, Misha had heard enough. She scurried away from outside the conference room, down the hall, and into her room. She locked her door behind her and dropped down onto her bed. She knew that she couldn't stay here long without being looked for. Squeezing her eyes shut, she balled her fists and pushed the bottom of her palms into her eye sockets for a moment before letting her arms drop to her sides. _It wasn't my fault._ She tried to reason with herself, but she still felt completely out of control. Hopeless, she rolled off the bed and eased out the door, heading back to the kitchen to help clean up.

Halfway across the distance between the two buildings, she heard her name. She looked over her shoulder to see Chris Farber catching up to her. She stopped and looked at him, still too pissed to say the first 'hello'.

"Hey, I've been waiting to talk to you alone, would you mind walking out here with me?" He hooked his thumb towards rocks along the beach.

Misha looked in the direction of the beach for a moment before nodding an agreement. _Am I really doing this again?_

When they reached the beach, Chris leaned against the smooth face of a rock. Misha stood, arms crossed, in front of him.

"I just wanted to tell you that I am really sorry for last night. We had no idea that our plan would backfire. Chris said. "I'm sorry we…upset you."

"Yeah, well, I know I overreacted. I have my reasons, but I don't care to talk about them." Misha said, looking up the beach.

"I'm not here for an explanation," he said, "I was just a little worried about you…"

"Being crazy?" she questioned, remembering Tyler's words. "Well, I'm not. I just…."

"No." Chris took a step towards her. "Not crazy. We…Ham and I… just felt bad about everything. That's all," he finished.

Misha nodded. They looked at each other for a moment, both struggling to see past the barricades, searching for the truth on the other side. Chris gave a short nod of his own, and then stepped around her to head back to the compound.

"Thank you, Chris." Misha said, remembering that he was trying to apologize to her.

"Yeah, no problem." he answered.

Misha shook her head and watched him plow through the sand before she followed his path back to the compound. She had been back less than two weeks, but she had already managed to cause friction when all she had wanted was to come in and lay low for a while. The thought of having to prove herself to everyone was overwhelming. She looked down at her feet struggling against the loose sand._ Yeah, that is exactly what it feels like, _she decided. She thought of how rutted and trashed the beach looked at night, but the tide would come in by morning and smooth the sand into little ripples and long stretches of glass-like perfection.

_And that's all I can hope for…_


	6. Chapter 6

The next few weeks were uneventful. Misha stuck close to Mike, and tried to fly under the radar as much as possible. The group was still trying to find the most effective ways to disrupt any Visitor operations, gather supplies, and build communication networks. Misha was invited to the meetings, but didn't give much input. She didn't want to be perceived as an armchair quarterback since she knew she would be excluded from any missions.

On a balmy winter day, Mike and Misha sat on a small slope in the shade of the lighthouse watching the younger kids play in the grass below them. Misha twirled a small rubber ball in front of her while they talked.

"You haven't noticed how he...I don't know...avoids us?" Mike asked, squinting into the sunny horizon. He had been worried about Sean since his return, and had brought it up to Misha on more than one occasion.

"Well, I guess. You know how kids change. One day you're the shit, the next day you're shitty." Misha replied.

"Such language!" Mike said, reaching over to cup his hand over Misha's mouth and pushing her back. She squealed, shoving his hand back. "Watch your mouth," he scolded.

Misha rolled her eyes. Mike was not much older than her, but he was annoyingly paternal. She smiled and pushed her shoulder into his. "Seriously, though. He's going to be fine. Just give him some space." _Give both of us some space, for Pete's sake._

Mike gave her a long look, and she wondered for a split second if she had said the last part out loud.

Misha spotted Sean climbing the hill and nudged Mike to hush. "Hey, Beaver!" she called. She always said Sean looked like a young Jerry Mathers, and she knew he hated when she teased him about it. When he didn't answer she flung the rubber ball in his direction. The ball struck him hard on the thigh when he didn't react to catch it. Sean stood there for a minute, glaring down at the ball that had rolled a few feet from him.

"Supposed to catch it, Slow Mo!" Misha laughed, leaning back on her hands.

The smile melted from her face when Sean looked back to her with clear hostility. In one swift move, he leaned over, scooped up the ball and sent it soaring for her head.

"Whoa!" she exclaimed, dodging the ball just before it nailed her in the face.

Mike jumped to his feet. "Sean! She was just playing! Why did you do that?" he yelled.

Stunned, Misha stared at Sean in bewilderment as he turned to walk away.

"Sean, come back here and apologize to Misha!" Mike barked.

"Hey, let it go..." Misha said quietly, standing and reaching for Mike's arm. He ignored her and stomped after Sean, taking him by the arm and leading him to the compound, admonishing as he went.

Misha let out a heavy sigh. Sean definitely was different since he had been back. Once a bright, funny, and engaged child, he now answered in monosyllables and questioned everything that was asked of him. Misha now felt guilty for ignoring it, as well as provoking him to anger. She wished Mike would have listened to her rather than chasing Sean down in a fit of anger. She was sure he would make Sean apologize to her, but she felt she was the one who needed to make amends.

* * *

><p>Just as she figured, she was finishing up her dishwashing detail when Sean wandered into the kitchen. He walked to the sink beside her, looking down into the grey water.<p>

"I'm sorry I tried to hit you with the ball," he said without any real feeling.

Misha gently bumped him with her hip, her hands being wet. "Oh, Sean. I know you are. I didn't mean to hit you with the ball. I was just playin' with you." He didn't look up. "Hey, we cool?"

"Why did you come back here, Misha?" he asked.

"Huh?" Misha stopped, trying to register his meaning. "Well, I came back because I saw you on TV. I had to get here as soon as I could to see how the heck we were going to get you back," she said, leaning over to look at him eye to eye.

"But you didn't have to come back. I was fine."

"I didn't know that."

"Why would you come back when you know everyone here is going to die?"

Misha sucked in a breath. "Why would you say that?" she asked slowly.

"It's true," he stated, finally looking up at her. "I told dad I'd come straight back." He turned for the door.

Misha, completely speechless, let him go.

_Why would he think that?_

_Why __**wouldn't**__ he think that? _

She dried her hands on her jeans and pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to push the thought from her head.


	7. Chapter 7

Misha couldn't bring herself to tell Mike what Sean had said. She knew that sweeping it under the rug was not the right thing to do, but didn't feel right about upsetting Mike and therefore causing a possible confrontation with Sean. Sean was obviously fragile, and she needed a way to help him without causing more pain.

After the night's dinner and clean up, Misha sought refuge in her dorm room. She sat on her single bed, one leg stretched out in front of her, the other dangled over the edge of the mattress. Her cheeks rested in the palms of her hands, and her long hair almost obscured the light from the large book in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she heard a light knock and she saw the not-quite closed door push open.

Ham Tyler entered without comment. Misha bolted upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"Uuuuuhhhh…" she protested in an irritated voice, one eyebrow cocked.

Ignoring her, he walked across the room, lifted the book from her lap, and then took a seat on the empty bed across from her. He glanced at the pages before closing the book and laying it beside him.

Misha cringed at his obvious display of dominance, feeling the heat of anger and embarrassment blotch her skin. He intertwined his fingers in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Let's just get this out on the table," he started. "It wasn't my intention to throw you off the night we picked up Donovan. I know it left a bad taste in your mouth. However, it didn't give you the right to eavesdrop on our meeting." He shook his head when he saw Misha bristle. "Don't," he warned.

Frustrated, she raked her fingers though her hair and then pushed herself back on the bed with her hands, resting her back against the wall.

"But I didn't tell anyone about that," he continued. "I have a feeling there's some big secret about you, and I don't give a shit about what it is. I do know that you have experience and knowledge. You should be helping us plan and train, but you sit around here feeling sorry for yourself, washing dishes, smoking and crying, or keeping holed up in this room instead of making yourself useful. Gooder and Parrish aren't doing you any favors by allowing it." He stopped for a moment, keeping his gaze steady while she looked toward the floor.

"Am I right?" he asked, slightly surprised by the lack of an outburst.

Misha half nodded - half shrugged. He kept staring at her, waiting for an answer.

"Yeah, guess you're right," she finally managed, meeting his stare and struggling to keep her voice steady.

"So, here's where you and I make a deal. I'll tell Gooder that you quit your busboy job, and you will start by showing up in the morning to help Chris with the upkeep of our munitions." He paused and leaned towards her, "And no one has to know about our other little secrets. Hmm?" he finished reaching across the space and smacking the side of her knee.

She studied him for a minute. "You enjoy tormenting me a little too much."

He rose and started out, but stopped to pick up CD case on her dresser to examine the cover.

"And you're nosey," she added dryly.

Ham actually smiled as he returned the case to the dresser and left the room, pleased by her chutzpah.


	8. Chapter 8

Ham pulled on a parka and gloves. "Chris and I will find a way to check this guy's story. Sounds like Nazi Germany all over again."

The Resistance leaders in Las Vegas had contacted the Los Angeles team about a man who had come to them with an unbelievable story of humans being moved by rail from Salt Lake City down to Los Angeles, and eventually shuttled to the Mother Ship.

Donovan shook his head. "I'd like to think he's wrong, but I can't say his story is much of a surprise." He stopped gathering the maps and notes laid out on the table to address Tyler. "I haven't seen Misha much over the past two weeks, but I think that you were right about letting her help Chris. She seems pretty content."

"Chris said she does well with repairing weapons. She seems to enjoy the work. She'll be fine." Ham answered curtly, heading for the door.

"My uncle was firearms fanatic. She was certainly exposed to all sorts of guns growing up." Donovan stopped. "Tyler," he called, seeing that he was losing his audience, and continued once Tyler paused at the door, "Misha is strong and smart, but she's always thought that she's ten times tougher than she really is. It has gotten her into some pretty tight spots. You have to watch her…"

"Look, Gooder," Ham interrupted, "she has spent the better part of her adult life in the military. I don't know her, but I can only imagine that she doesn't need your constant mothering." He didn't wait for Donovan's response before he pushed through the door. He had bigger things to worry about than babysitting or tip toeing around to keep from hurting one person's feelings.

Ham would shoot his foot off before he would admit it to Gooder, but there was something about Misha that made him think about her way more than he would like. He saw it in the way she dressed, easy and relaxed, but every article of clothing seemed fitted and paired perfectly. Despite her fragility, she carried herself with a reserved confidence, no doubt born out of her military service. There were physical attributes that caught his attention: her delicate hands, the light streaks in her hair when it was pulled back, and jewel toned hazel eyes – a hue he had never seen before. She was certainly taller, curvier, and more tomboyish than most women he was attracted to. He didn't feel a burning desire for her; it was more of an undefined attraction that quietly nagged the back of his mind. One night during dinner, he was surprised by a small twinge of envy that rose in his throat when he saw her leaning in to listen intently to Donovan, looking up at him with unconcealed admiration. She certainly didn't look at him with any sort of admiration. She seemed to avoid him, physically and socially. If he came upon her in a group of people, she would pretend to be distracted until she could think of an excuse to leave. During the times that they were in close proximity, he noticed the way she distanced herself by quickly sidestepping or jumping out of his way. He would welcome the behavior from anyone else, but for some reason he found her evasion disappointing, if not annoying. He couldn't help but to think '_Spoiled fucking brat_…' when he watched her walk away. Her unease was his fault, he realized, and he had set in motion some sort of mea culpa by encouraging – or jokingly black mailing her – into moving past her injuries and fears and becoming a functioning member of the team.

The allure started not long after the night of her breakdown. He knew a better man would have gone to her that night, comforted her, apologized for scaring her. He also knew he would never be that person. Then, a few nights later, he had a dream about her sitting in his lap. He was kissing her and playing with the silky strands of hair along the nape of her neck, his hands rubbing her thighs. He had brushed off the dream as brought on by feelings of guilt and a long stretch of physical deprivation. He reasoned with himself that it was human nature to think about someone differently after an emotionally charged dream, and the feelings would soon fade. If not, he would force them out.

Presently, he walked through the drizzle and chill to the long, low warehouse building that housed most of their weapons cache.

As he entered the building, he spotted Chris scrubbing steel wool over large ammo shells, which lined the table in front of him.

"Still jamming?" Ham asked, raising one of the shells up to the light for closer inspection.

"Yep. We figured we'd try this and go fire off a few more rounds. I told Misha we'd go way out and try out some explosives I've been working on while we were at it," Chris answered.

Ham turned when he heard a chair scrape against the wall. He hadn't noticed Misha sitting against the wall, partially obscured by a filing cabinet. That is, until she got up to walk away. He quickly paced after her, grabbing the back of her sleeve when he caught up. She jumped, having no idea he was behind her.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, letting go of her sleeve only to grasp her elbow.

"Huh?"

"You don't have to leave on my account."

Misha looked over his shoulder to Chris, who was approaching carefully, his puzzled look matching hers.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" She asked tugging her elbow towards her.

Ham didn't let go. "I mean you don't have to bolt like a deer every time I show up."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She pulled her arm again, but his grip stayed firm. Ham saw a switch flip. Her eyes turned cold.

"_Let….go_," she warned through clinched teeth.

Chris stepped forward and pulled Ham's arm away. Ham stood motionless, still determined to set her straight. He opened his mouth, but she erupted first.

"I don't know what your problem is. I haven't done a damn thing to you. I try to stay out of your way, but apparently even that is not enough. I guess since you think I'm so 'bat shit crazy', you figure I'm going to fuck up your little world somehow…"

"You don't get it, do you? I told you that I didn't say anything about you eavesdropping on that meeting – but you don't want to let it go, huh?"

Ham felt Chris' hand on his shoulder as he took a step towards Misha. She eyed Ham in painful confusion, but didn't answer.

Ham let out a sigh and straightened his shoulders. "All right then, Sweetheart," he said, smiling coldly. "Why don't you run along back to your cousin and your dishwashing duties." He turned, shooting Chris a vexed look as he walked out.

Chris held a hand up for Misha to stay where she was. When they heard the door shut, Chris reached out to touch her shoulder.

"Let it go."

Stunned, she couldn't take her eyes off the closed door.

"Come on," he said, "we have to get busy if we're gonna have time to head out to the desert."

* * *

><p>Misha stared out the passenger's side window of her Jeep. She had let Chris drive since she didn't know where they were going. Following behind him, a couple of guys followed in a pickup with weapons and explosives in the back. Misha referred to the two guys and Chris collectively as "The Rocket Boys" since they had bonded over their interest in explosives and rocketry…or pretty much anything that went bang. Misha liked being around them because hanging out with the group, listening to them talk, and laughing at their bullshit stories reminded her of being at home with her family.<p>

"I know ya'll are friends," she said, "and I know you said to let it go, but I just don't understand, Chris."

"You may not realize it, but you do bug out when he shows up. I guess he sees it as an insult. Like a passive disrespect, you could call it."

"I don't mean it that way," she replied at length.

"Then you should tell him that."

"I'm afraid to!" she exclaimed.

He shook his head. "Don't be," Chris said in a final tone.

She stared out the window again. "I've been beat down so much. I'm just tired." Something seemed to click in her mind. "So, he told you that he didn't like me walking off? Why didn't you tell me?"

Chris shook his head. "You gotta remember; I've known Ham for a long time."

"Then you'll talk to him for me?"

Chris considered the request for a minute before answering. "I'll talk to him first, but you'll need to tell him yourself."

* * *

><p>Stretched out in one wood and naugahyde chair with her feet propped up in another, Misha sat in front of a small flickering TV in the commons area. The trip to out to the desert had left her exhausted, but she had the most fun she could remember in recent history. She was surprised at how well she and Chris got along. She knew not to get too familiar with him, but he was quickly winning her over.<p>

She heard footsteps behind her, but she assumed it was Mike coming to look for her. She had slipped out of the mess hall while the others lingered to chat after dinner.

"What's up, Mikey?" she asked without looking up. She then felt two hands pressing down on her shoulders. Frowning, she leaned her head back and looked up to see Ham Tyler standing over her.

"I thought I'd hold you down so you wouldn't run off," he said. "But then you had to confuse me with Gooder?" He grinned and slid his hands around her neck.

Misha snickered and pushed his hands back. He released her neck only to poke her ribs.

"Ouch! Cut it out!" She squirmed out of the chair, and turned to face him. Placing one foot on the edge of the chair, she launched herself over the back, knocking him into a small sofa and landing on top of him. She howled in laughter as she pulled herself off of him, holding her hand out to help him up.

Ham didn't take her hand, but heaved himself up on his own. "Anyone ever tell you that you take things too far?" he growled.

Misha, still laughing, backed away from him. "Yeah, haven't you heard?" she broke for the door, stopping before she darted out. "I'm bat shit crazy!"

Ham stood in the middle of the room, listening to her hysterical laughing and pounding feet in full sprint fade down the hall.

* * *

><p>"First of all," Ham said, leaning down over Misha, "Parrish has worked hard trying to get you back into working order." He pointed at her leg. "You don't have the right to screwing around, doing your little WWF stunts, and getting yourself hurt again."<p>

Misha had found him pouring over paper work in a small office dimly lit by a single desk lamp. She had apologized for coming across as disrespectful and, as much as she didn't regret pouncing on him, she offered a reluctant apology for that, as well. Ham had listened to her, stone faced, then walked around the desk, crossing his arms as he propped against the edge, standing a few inches in front of her chair.

"Gooder may have all the time in the world to coddle you, but I sure as hell don't." He stopped for a minute, studying her. "I just don't know about you, Misha."

"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.

"I've seen about ten different sides of you. I'm trying to figure out which one is the real deal."

She shrugged. "Let me know when you do." Her head snapped up as if a something had suddenly occurred to her. "So…truce?"

Ham shook his head. "If I give you that inch, you would take ten damn miles. Now, get out of here and quit wasting my time."

Despite his gruffness, Misha smiled broadly. She stood up, and before he could step away, she wrapped her arms around his waist. "I really _do _appreciate what you've done for me," she said, squeezing him.

Ham surprised her by returning the hug for a brief moment. He then grasped her arms and pushed her back so he could look down at her.

"I see. When all else fails, you charm your way out. Nice try," he said with raised eyebrows. "Now, _get lost._" He smacked her between her shoulder blades.

Misha couldn't miss the smile in his dark eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Ham found Chris sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of one of the buildings. He was bent over with his elbows on his knees reading a month-old paper.

"Same bullshit as always?" Ham asked.

"You know it, brother. Everything is fine and dandy. Visitors are solving _all_ the world's problems."

Ham sighed heavily as he plopped down on the bench.

"I told Julie and Donovan when we're meeting. Where's your little friend?"

"Misha? She's out at the range, training some newbies," Chris grinned. "You should see 'em."

* * *

><p>"OK, now push the grip out away from your body and hold onto the slide just enough to get traction. Hard…like this…" Misha snapped the slide back on the .22 handgun. She had chosen the smaller caliber firearm to train the inexperienced duo. "Then when you get it back, let it go."<p>

Her students murmured uncertain acknowledgements.

"Remember, aware but not afraid. You saw for yourself, it is unloaded, right?"

The two nodded in unison.

"But, we want to practice keeping it pointed downrange and not pointing it at others – loaded or not."

Seeing the exchange from a distance, Ham chuckled. Chris was right, the sight was priceless. Misha towered above her students. They were a tiny, near retirement aged couple who looked like they would be more at home under an umbrella in South Florida. As Ham approached, Misha looked up. He stopped several yards back, crossed his arms and smiled smugly.

Misha returned her focus to the gun in her hand. "Once you have a bullet chambered, you're ready to fire. Now, let's move over here… You want to wrap your dominant hand around the grip, and your other hand like this. Always put your trigger finger right here. Never put it inside the trigger guard until you're ready to shoot." Misha laid the handgun on the raised bench. She smiled at her students. "Could ya'll please excuse me for just a minute? I'll be right back."

"Such a nice girl, such sweet Southern manners," Misha heard the woman say to her husband.

_God I hope __**he**__ didn't hear that... _She thought as she approached Tyler.

Ham sighed and looked thoughtfully toward the sky. "Elly May…or Scarlett, I can't decide…" He had heard.

"Screw off, Tyler. What do you want?" she said, careful to be quiet enough to protect her reputation with her students.

"We're meeting at 1600 to plan our strategy for gathering intel. Will you be finished here by then?"

"Sure."

"Alright." He reached out to stop her before she walked away. He pulled her around so that he was facing away from their audience and then leaned in close to her. "Good job." Misha cocked her head back in surprise. "I mean it," he continued. "What do you think would happen if I tried to train those two?"

Misha laughed and looked down to avoid his serious, intense eyes. "They would probably run screaming."

"Mmmm. They probably _should_ run screaming." He laid his palm over the top of her head and squeezed with his finger tips. "Don't be late," he said, stepping around her.

Misha smoothed her hair back and returned to the couple.

"Is that your husband?" the woman asked.

Misha thought she would faint. "Oh, no, ma'am!" she cried. Misha saw the woman's sincere expression. She obviously didn't know who Ham Tyler was. "No, no. I'm not married. He's just, uh…" She felt fire under the skin of her face. "He's sort of my mentor, I guess. No love there!" She laughed in an attempt to sound casual, but it came out a squeaky, high pitched giggle.

_Damn… Damn… Damn! If he heard that, I'm gonna die. Just die. I'll quit. I'll leave… I'll go…somewhere. Damn!_

She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate again, willing herself not to look back to see how far away he was. "So, let's see you hold the gun."

* * *

><p>"Captain LaReaux. Open your eyes, please."<p>

Misha's eyes flashed open. Everything was white; white walls, white light from above, sharp white pain ripping through her head. A high pitched whine pierced her ears. She felt her torso being lifted, floating up into a sitting position.

Julie Parrish and Robert Maxwell stood by the bed. Their bright red Visitor uniforms blazed against the white background.

"Captain LaReaux, we found him. But unfortunately, he had ended his own life. We are sorry for your loss." Julie continued her cold stare for a moment before nodding to Robert. Both pivoted and walked away.

Misha felt herself being slammed back into the bed. _What? They found him? It's happening again? What did I do?_ Her mouth opened but she couldn't scream. She couldn't move. The ringing in her ears was deafening.

Then there was darkness - cold darkness. She heard music.

"I was standing, you were there. Two worlds collided…"

She opened her eyes and tried to look around. At first, she could only see darkness. She remembered the song. Not that it was one of her favorites. In fact, it had never held any significant meaning to her until that night. It was playing on the radio that night. She remembered the blows to her head, kicks to her stomach. Through the whole attack, that song was playing. How could the world be so insane? How could someone you love try to kill you while a love song played on the radio?

"And they could never tear us apart."

Then, she saw it. On the cot beside her, she saw the outline of a body covered by a sheet. She tried to scream again. Silence.

_Oh, God. This is my punishment for causing it. He killed himself. It was my fault. They put me in the morgue with him. I deserve it. It was my fault. I pushed him to it. I should have died, too._

_I have to move. I have to get out. I can't stay here. I can't see him like this. I can't go through this again. _

Misha sat up and put her feet on the cold tile floor. She eased herself slowly off the cot. Using her hands she found the end of the cot, then the wall, then the door. She eased the door open, concentrating on the hall way, not looking back into the room. She looked up and down the hall; she saw no one. Pushing her body through the door, she spotted double doors at the end of the hall.

_Please, please, please. Let them be outside doors…please. _She sobbed to herself as she shuffled stiffly along, passing other closed doors. She pushed the doors and felt the cool rush of outside air.

As she stepped outside, she looked around. She didn't know where to go. Slowly, the haze lifted.

A voice came from the darkness.

Diane Lockbar was on guard duty when she spotted Misha wandering out onto the grounds in her pajamas and bare feet. "Misha? Honey, are you OK?" She continued towards Misha. "What's wrong? _Misha_, what's the matter?"

Misha didn't turn around, but a slow realization of where she was crept up from the darkness. She heard another, deeper, male voice.

"Something wrong, Diane?"

"I don't know. I think she's sleepwalking."

"Give her some space."

"Misha?"

She finally turned to them.

"Do you want to go back inside?" Diane asked. She was met by a blank stare.

"You should get Julie," Elias said.

Misha sat straight down on the ground, crossing her legs in front of her.

Elias came over and crouched down in front of her. "Hey, kid. Everything is going to be OK. Julie is coming."

* * *

><p>Misha sat staring at the empty bed across from her.<p>

"I was dreaming. Then, I was sleepwalking. I'm OK now," she repeated for the third time.

"I'll let you talk to her. Let me know if you need anything else."

Mike and Julie mumbled "Thank you." in unison. Diane excused herself from the room.

"What were you dreaming about?" Julie asked.

Misha tucked her chin to her chest. "No…"

"I know it's hard to talk about, but it's important."

"Same old shit, different cast of characters."

"Which one, Misha?" Mike asked.

Misha knew what he meant. Which life crushing, mind numbing, hysteria inducing past experience did you dream about this time?

After a moment, she tried to say a name, but she choked on it. Mike made out enough to know.

She took a deep breath, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Can I please just lie down again? I'm so tired."

Julie and Mike exchanged anxious glances.

"OK, but I'll be just down the hall if you need me," Mike said, rubbing her shoulder.

As they left her room, Mike cocked his head toward the TV room at the end of the hall.

Julie pushed the doors shut as Mike walked to the center of the room. He put his hands on his hips and dropped his head for a moment before looking up at Julie.

"Misha was engaged to be married." He stopped, snatched a chair, and pushed it towards her. She sat down.

"But, before they were married, an officer's wife came to her with information," he continued. "She brought Misha an envelope with still shots from video footage. To make a long story short, this woman's husband, Misha's fiancée, and some other officers were taking women home from bars, taking turns with them, and filming it. Not only that, but one of the 'women' was actually a 17 year old girl. The officer's wife wanted Misha to go with her to turn them in. Misha was so disgusted, hurt, and angry. She agreed to go even though she knew that it would ruin their careers. At first, Misha's fiancée denied everything. Then when she produced the evidence, he was apologetic. When that didn't work, he began to stalk and threaten her. He broke into her apartment one night, and bum rushed her when she came in. He beat and choked her until she lost consciousness. He must have thought he had killed her because he went back to his apartment…and shot himself in the head. A neighbor heard the shot and called for help. When they found him, Misha's friends went looking for her. When they couldn't find her, they kicked in her door..." Mike stopped, walked to a window, placed his hands on the ledge, and leaned his weight against it. "That wasn't the end of her nightmare. His family blamed her for his death. Believe me, she went through pure hell."

After a moment Julie spoke. "My God, Mike. Was this before or after the attack in Lebanon?"

"It was a few years after that…and a year before the Visitors invaded. I know when she had her first break down and broke her leg, I told you she had been through a lot. I just didn't tell you how much. I thought maybe one day she could tell you herself."

"I don't know if she can handle being here." She thought for a moment before looking up at him. "Mike, if there is anything else, I need you to tell me now."

Mike sighed and shook his head. "She's been doing so well lately. Hell, _Ham Tyler _was even said so. Besides, she couldn't stay on her own forever." He slumped into a chair, exhausted. "I just don't know what to do about Misha…or Sean."

Julie rose, walked across the room to him and wrapped her arms around him. "We'll think of something. But for now, all we can do is protect them as much as possible."

"I'm just not sure we can."

* * *

><p>Misha dry heaved again. Of course the dream bothered her, but this time it was different. The dreams before were just replays of the actual events. Occasionally strange things would pop up, but not like this. It was so <em>personal<em>. Julie, Robert, the Visitor uniforms…and the song. She hadn't dreamed about it before. She had heard it during waking hours, but she would always try to get away from the source as quick as possible. There was one other part of the dream that bothered her. Ham. She had spent the past hour lying in the dark, trying to piece together the dream. She was trying to remember if Julie had said his name. _She said 'he'…she didn't say his name….no, she didn't. There was no reason for me to think they were talking about Ham. _But, she couldn't escape it. Misha's mind had put him there. She didn't understand why. _Maybe it was the whole 'husband' talk today. My mind links the word 'husband' with the phrase 'I'm not married' which goes back to 'but I almost was'…and that goes back to…_

An uncontrollable urgency had crept into her. She needed to see him. _Ridiculous. This is your problem, not his. He is fine. You are the one throwing up into a trash can. Leave it alone! Leave __**him**__ alone. What are you going to say? 'I dreamed that I pushed you over the edge and you put a bullet in your head.' Yeah, that will help your reputation with him._

_You can't do it._

Thirty minutes later, she was in the darkest clothes she owned, going down the hall again. She hoped that Diane wasn't still on duty, but thought up a bullshit story just in case. She managed to slip out the double doors and across the grounds to the men's dorm without being spotted. She paused in the moonlight. She remembered going in the dorm to find Mike the week before and seeing Ham come out of one of the rooms. Whispering to herself, she mapped out in her mind which window would be his. This could be disastrous.

_Just do it, moron, or you're going to get caught standing out here like a Looney Tune._

She crept up under the window and realized that she stood way below the bottom pane. She took a deep breath, jumped and smacked the pane. The sound resonated painfully. She waited for lights to blare, sirens to wail, and voices to yell. What couldn't have been a full minute later, she heard her name.

She jumped, spinning towards the sound.

"What…in the hell….are you doing?"

She smiled. "Lookin' for you. Do you sleep in your clothes?"

"I don't sleep."

"I shoulda figured that." Another brilliant smile.

"Misha? What do you want?"

Her head tingled. She blinked. There was something…she had planned on saying… she searched her mind. Empty. Nothing. Totally blank.

"Come on, let's take a walk."

Relieved, she followed him.

They walked to the top of a hill and sat on the rock where he had found her smoking and crying the day Mike announced his plans to turn himself in. The moon was only a tiny sliver, and the stars shone brilliantly in the clear night.

"They prove it to me," she said.

"What's that?"

"The stars. The same ones are there. The bayous in Louisiana, the mountains in North Carolina, the little islands of South Georgia, the deserts of the Middle East, the cities in Europe – where ever you are – just look up and they're there all the same. It proves to me that this really is the same world, no matter how much it has changed. Well, I guess the world hasn't changed, just the circumstances on the surface."

"It is different now. There's nowhere to hide."

Misha looked at him. "I try to remember that some people have to live through that all their lives: constant war, famine, government unrest. My – American – generation has no idea. At least I had the privilege of living my childhood during peace time."

Ham's face changed. It relaxed into some sort of deep thought or memory.

"Ham… I had a really bad dream tonight."

He blinked slowly several times, lost in his thoughts, before looking at her.

"You were sleepwalking?" he acknowledged. "I was there when they came to get Mike. Listen, now. You have come a long way. We've had this discussion before, and nothing has changed. I know how these things can mess you up. It's up to you not to let them. I know that's not what doctors and shrinks will tell you. But I'm telling you that you're going to have rough spots no matter how much you talk or don't talk, no matter how much someone says nice things to make it all better, no matter how much medication they can pump into you."

Misha didn't respond. He could see pain in her eyes and in the way her mouth was set.

He continued, "I know that Gooder thinks he knows what you are going through because he has seen war through a camera lens. Parrish thinks she can fix you up because she's a doctor. But you know and I know that they have _no idea_. Hmm?" He reached over and flicked a finger under her chin.

She looked at him with tear brimmed eyes and nodded.

"I know that Chris and I are rough around the edges; we're not going to baby you, but we do know where you're coming from."

_No, you are wrong. __**You**__ have no idea._ She couldn't believe he was lowering the sky-high, mile-thick wall around him, so she didn't correct him.

"I'm trying to keep it together – I have to. I mean…" she gestured out into the dark with one hand. "I can't afford not to. There's too much on the line right now. Sure, they can put me up in an apartment and tell me to lie low, but they can't 'ship me back home'. Like you said, there's nowhere to go."

"Either you keep it together or you don't."

The 'which is it going to be?' was left unsaid.

He nudged her with his elbow. "Now, you better get back before Gooder comes after me with a 12 gauge shotgun."

She rolled her eyes. "Silly me, I keep forgetting that we're not adults. But we do need to get some sleep before we head out to watch for trains. Oh, that's right, you don't sleep."

"Just when I think you might have learned something – there you go with that smart ass mouth of yours."

She surprised him with an earnest reply. "I was only joking." She didn't smile as she looked at him, wide-eyed.

He was caught off guard. He had completely expected her to give that big appreciative laugh, make another wise crack, or playfully assault him again. _Oh, no, anything but __**that**__ look._

"Nope," he said, recovering quickly, "sad eyes won't work either. Are you keeping a list? You should be running out of options soon."

"Whatever…" She laughed as she got up to leave, but stopped a few paces away. "Thanks again, Tyler."

"Get some sleep, Kiddo."

"_Kiddo_? Really? I'm almost 30."

"Get some sleep, Grandma."


	10. Chapter 10

Mike leaned against the wall and wiped his eye. "You made me cry on that one, Mimi," he chuckled.

"I'm serious! I had no idea what he was saying. There weren't any interpreters around. How was I to know he was trying to pick me up? I guess he was going to show me the town from back of his bicycle. How romantic," Misha said.

Mike was glad to see her showing signs of normalcy; signs of the quirky, funny girl that he had watched grow up into a mature woman that he was so proud of. He thought of how full of life she had been, and how much he admired her for doing what_ she_ wanted to do, no matter what others said. Her circumstances had caused her to become quiet, fragile, and confused, but he had hopes that it was only temporary.

Misha pushed herself off the wall, signaling for him to stop talking. They both paused to listen. Again, the faint sound of a train whistle carried through the cold air.

"Did you hear that?" Mike asked.

"Yeah." Misha made her way towards her predetermined position. She stood at the corner of a building, ready to crouch down behind a nearby shrub growing up through the cracking concrete. Minutes later, she eased into her position as the blare of the whistle grew closer. She dreaded seeing the train, or more specifically, the train's contents. Images rolled through her mind's eye: faces she had witnessed, bloodied and blackened by mortars, photographs she had seen of war victims, film reels she had watched of P.O.W's. _No, not now, can't think about that now._

The train came into view. As it passed, flashes of neon colored graffiti sped by her in a blur. _I'm too close_, she thought, looking for a better vantage point. She knew she would only have seconds to gain the information they needed. She spotted a low barrier wall with a two foot section missing. She shuffled backwards to the spot, trying not to take her eyes off the train. Just as she settled in, she spotted the grates of a livestock car. The small openings were black; she didn't even see light from the other side. There was nothing that indicated the cars held human cargo, but something was off about them.

The train eventually rambled out of site, and she waited until the wail of the horn faded before she made her way to Mike.

"Did you see anything?" she asked hopefully as she spotted him.

Mike shook his head. "No. Nothing…"

Misha's shoulders sagged. "The train was going too fast. I couldn't see a damn thing," she said looking up the tracks. "Let's go. Maybe the others saw something."

* * *

><p>Misha gazed out the window. Harsh mid-day light had lapsed into a softer evening sun. Although she had spent many of her adult years in the arid, sand filled landscapes of the Middle East, the desert still, in some deep rooted way, frightened her. It was so vast, so empty, and so lonely. The open desert was fascinating, like a too beautiful man – while her eyes couldn't get enough, her brain warned her to steer clear. She was more comfortable entombed under the canopy of oaks and pines with the black waters of the bayou or the soft loam of the mountains under foot. She had often thought about going back east to find a resistance group, but didn't want that to think of that setting as a war zone. She also couldn't leave Mike and Sean. Now, she had formed even more connections that she wouldn't want to break.<p>

"What's going on in that blonde head of yours?" Mike asked, interrupting her train of thought.

"By 'blonde' do you mean empty?" Misha asked with fake sincerity.

"Nah, I can tell by the look on your face that your head is anything but empty."

Misha sighed. "You're right. Everything is swirling around like a tornado. I'm just going through the scenarios of what we need to do if the others found something we didn't. Then, we have the weapons drop off next week."

"You don't have to go if you think it's too much."

"No, no it's not that. Just a lot to think about. I'm just trying to work it all out while we have a moment's peace."

Mike adjusted himself in his seat. "I know what you mean. I've always heard safety in numbers, but sometimes the crowd seems stifling."

"Chris mentioned the other day that he didn't think we could go on living communally. I think he's right. If the Visitors found us, they could wipe out our entire unit. The logistics of moving the group as a whole are becoming more and more daunting."

"Maybe, but it's easier to trust the new people that come in when we can observe them."

"Yeah, but there is more of a chance for someone to give up our location."

Mike was quiet for awhile before answering. "Like you said, it's a lot to think about.""So," he said with a faint smile, "sounds to me like you've been having some pretty serious conversations. Tell me how you charmed your way into Ham's inner circle."

"By 'inner circle' you mean …Chris. Not much of a circle there."

"Other than him being round," Mike smirked.

"Yeah, well… I don't know about being in their 'inner circle' as you call it. I don't know any more about them than I did the day we all met. Both of them are pretty hard core."

"You got that right."

"I know you and Tyler had some conflicts. I mean, I remember all the shit that hit the fan after that little expose you did, but – no offense – I was fighting wars of my own at the time."

Mike smiled and nodded. "No offense taken, sweetheart."

"So, what do you know about him?" Misha asked.

"Probably not much more than you know. I looked up his background just after our first encounter. I thought that I might want to figure out who he was since I was afraid he'd put a bullet in my back. Best I can remember he was in the military, some special operations unit, then in the CIA. I'm not sure at what point he went out on his own as a mercenary."

"I wonder what made him do that."

"Well, I don't know, but I'm sure money could have been a big factor."

Misha shook her head. "He just doesn't seem like the type. If he was into the love of money he surely wouldn't be on our side at this point."

"You can't ask him?"

Misha glared at him over her sunglasses.

Mike shrugged. "Why don't you ask Chris?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, suuuure. Then I'll go ask Alfred to give me a map to the Bat Cave. Anyway, why are we even discussing this? There are a lot more pressing things to worry about, you know?"

"Agreed."

* * *

><p>"You can see it in this picture: they have placed some sort of cover over the inside of the cars to disguise the people inside. Here, they're unloading them for transport to the Mother Ship."<p>

Misha only glanced at the slide before lowering her eyes to the toe of her boot. She uncrossed her legs and squirmed in her chair. She felt nauseous.

"The intel was correct, people," Ham continued. "Now, we need to decide what to do about it."

"We have to do something," a voice said from the middle of the room. The others turned their attention to Hanna, an attractive, middle aged woman who had only recently lost her entire family. "That could be us on the next train" The room buzzed with mumbled agreements.

Misha's eyes snapped shut, suddenly and uncontrollably imagining herself on the train, feeling the cold, the rumbling under her feet, and the hopeless feeling of being herded towards certain death. She silently willed her head to stop spinning. When she opened her eyes again, she felt Ham's stare. She bit the inside of her lip and looked down again, his attention adding to her unease.

"You're right, Hanna. But we have to go about this carefully. We need to shut the operation down for good and ensure no one gets hurt. No one human, that is," Mike said.

"Exactly," Julie interjected. "Planning will take time. I know the consequences of that, but as Mike said, we can't afford to rush into this."

* * *

><p>As the resistance fighters filed out of the conference room and out the main door, one of the girls nudged Misha.<p>

"Hey, we're all going out on the beach if you want to join us," she said.

"Uh…well… I'd like to. Maybe I'll catch up later."

"Yeah, come on. We need to blow off some steam after_ that_ report."

Misha nodded. "Sure. I have some stuff to do first."

Only making it a few paces away from the building Misha felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Why don't you go with them, Mish?" Mike asked quietly.

She stopped and faced him, struggling for the right excuse.

"We have things to do, Gooder." Tyler stepped around Mike and touched Misha's arm as he passed her. "Let's go pull out those maps again and target some more locations."

Misha hurried after Tyler without looking back at Mike, but she heard him mumble irritably under his breath. "I'll be there later," he finally called after them.

They reached the room with large square tables and rolled maps leaning against the walls and stacked in the corners. Ham opened the door and waved a hand, ushering Misha through the door.

"Not getting you into too much trouble, am I?"

Surprised, she turned to look at him as she shed her coat. "What trouble?"

He smirked. "With Gooder. I'm sure he didn't appreciate you following me."

Misha didn't quite know how to answer, so she just waved her hand in dismissal.

Ham continued, "You looked so miserable that I thought I would save you." He studied her for a moment before going on. "Don't like hen parties, huh?"

Misha glared at him. _What a dick-headed thing to say…_ "No. But if you're going to ask me twenty questions, maybe the beach is not such a bad idea."

Ham leaned towards her as he walked by. "Would you calm down?" He scanned the room. "We need more detailed maps. Don't just stand there; look through those maps so that you can tell Gooder that you really did something tonight."

"Ugh. You piss me off," she said.

"Good." Ham couldn't quite suppress an evil grin.

They worked in silence for awhile. Ham could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Finally, just as he predicted, she couldn't keep her silence any longer.

"I just don't like to discuss clothes and shoes and boyfriends, OK?"

Ham stopped and threw his hands up in phony desperation. "Well, what else are we to discuss?" he asked.

"Oh, shut the hell up! You know what I mean."

He laughed. "Watch it..."

"Oooohhh…Yes ma'am!" Misha said, saluting.

Ham slung the clip board in his hand to the floor and went after her. Laughing, she ran behind a table, blocking him from grabbing her.

"Not funny. Now, say you're sorry or I will _make_ you sorry."

"You _talk_ funny," she gasped, still laughing. "Where are you from, anyway?"

Misha screamed and bolted from behind the table as he lunged for her. She was not quite quick enough; Ham managed to grab the back of her shirt, and he dragged her towards him.

"OK OK OK! I'm sorry!"

"Too late for that. You should have apologized when I asked the first time." He wrapped his arms around her and kneed her in the behind.

"I said it! Now let… me… go…." Misha gasped bursts of laughter and struggled against his arms wrapped tightly around her.

"I don't think so."

They both froze as the door banged open. Mike stood in the door way, hands on his hips, glaring angrily.

Tyler reluctantly let her go, but Mike's stare didn't soften.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud. We were just messing around." Misha demanded.

"Oh, were you?" Mike asked with his eyebrows raised. He pointed towards the door.

Ham gave a low chuckle. "Maybe not the best choice of words, there kiddo."

Misha grabbed her coat and stomped past Mike. When she heard the door slam she turned to face him.

"Not one word, Mike! I'm not even going to talk to you about this."

"You listen to me Delamisha. You _do not know him_. You _do not know_ what you are getting yourself into. Do you think he's like everyone else? He's not. Trust me, I know. Do you think this is all an innocent little flirtation? You just don't think about consequences, do you? Not your problem until something goes wrong."

Stunned, tears welled in her eyes. "How dare you say that to me after what I've been through?"

Mike shook his head. "No, do not start that with me."

"I guess you think that everything that has happened to me is my fault? I asked for it because I'm too reckless?"

"Stop it," he spat.

"Gooder…" Mike and Misha both jumped at the sound of Tyler's voice. Neither of them had heard him come up from behind.

"I wasn't trying to hurt her. Don't let it torque your frame." He continued walking past them and gestured with his palms up. "You're always so damn serious; can't take a joke. And you say _I'm_ the asshole…"

Mike and Misha watched his back as he walked away from them. When they finally regarded each other again, silent tears of humiliation were streaming down Misha's face. She pushed past Mike and marched towards her dorm room.

* * *

><p>Misha heard her door squeak open.<p>

_Note to self: Lock the freaking door if I'm undressed. Lock it and put a chair under the knob._

"Hey."

She sat up and quickly wiped tears from her cheeks, praying Tyler wouldn't flip the light switch.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry I got you in trouble with Mommy Dearest."

Misha stifled a laugh. "It's not your fault. He thinks I'm still twelve."

A pause. "No, you are definitely not twelve."

The door pushed open wider, and she saw his shadow slip through. A second later she felt his weight on the edge of the bed. She reclined back on her pillow, lying slightly curled on her side.

"Delmisha? Is that what he called you?"

"Del-_a_-misha. Delamisha Renee." She heard a quiet chuckle. "Oh, really? You're gonna laugh at _my_ name? And what, might I ask, is your real name?"

"I wasn't laughing at your name. And it's Hamilton."

Both were quiet for a moment.

"I like it. It fits you," she commented.

"You think so?"

"Mmmm." Misha laid her hand against his arm. He reached over and took it in his own and rubbed her fingers between his. "My first week of basic training, my drill sergeant asked me why my momma didn't just name me 'Cajun Gator Coonass'. So, I was 'Cadet Coonass' from then on."

Ham actually laughed. "_That _fits you."

She giggled. "I don't have to tell _you_ that my inability to control my laughing earned me a record amount of ass chewings."

Ham snorted his agreement.

"Uh, oh. I've over shared again."

"Nah. Not many people make me laugh these days. So, you are Cajun?"

"Oh, well, way back on my father's side. But they kept the accent and the liberal use of French when they're mad or happy…or drinking…or…uh…naming babies."

"Your name is quite lovely."

Misha smiled in the dark. "You know, you can be almost decent when you want to be."

He sighed. "I'm glad I have you fooled." He turned her hand over and gently bit the inside of her wrist.

Misha squirmed at the unexpected flick of his tongue the second before his teeth nipped her skin. She felt his lips press a kiss to her palm before he laid her hand aside. His weight lifted from the bed. _Oh, please don't leave…_

Without another word, he crept out. The door shut, leaving her in darkness again.

She touched her wrist with the backs of her fingers. There was definitely a warm dampness. She hadn't imagined it – the small gesture that was so incredibly subtle and seductive at the same time.

* * *

><p>Misha awoke. She could make out the contents of the room, now visible in the dim predawn light. She touched her wrist again, hoping to feel dampness. She listened to the quiet opening and closing of doors and hushed voices in the hall. The others were starting another day. She swiped her fingers over her forehead as if to physically clear her mind, but it didn't work. Misha sighed as a song began to play in her head.<p>

_I'd like to kiss you, I'd love you hold you  
>I ain't got no time for that now<em>


End file.
